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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23930443">A Question of Taste</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle'>pamdizzle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Tumblr Fics and Drabbles--Gobblepot Edition [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gotham (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Edward Nygma - Freeform, Fluff, Gobblepot Spring 2020, Humor, M/M, Meet-Cute, Tumblr Prompt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:00:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,630</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23930443</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An artist and a police officer walk into an art museum. Fills the free space square of the Gobblepot Spring 2020 Challenge.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Tumblr Fics and Drabbles--Gobblepot Edition [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1277933</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Gobblepot Spring 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Question of Taste</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Quick note on Lace and Satin's latest WIP installment: I will be resuming that next week since some of the people in my household will be returning to their offices during the day. Woot. In the meantime, have some fluff!</p><p>For Butterfliesandresistance who prompted me to write a fic starring Oswald Cobblepot as a starving artist.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It isn’t that Jim doesn’t appreciate art, or that he doesn’t understand its importance as a tangible expression of the history of mankind, as Barb likes to put it, but this? Jim barely suppresses the urge to curl his lip. This modern take on abstract expressionism is less Jackson Pollock and more regurgitated paint-on-canvas and it is definitely making him feel something, but that something is more akin to queasy than thoughtful.</p><p>It isn’t just the chunky texture of the piece he’s looking at either; There’s a smell to the exhibit, one Jim picked up all the way out in the antechamber where the artist sat greeting patrons as they entered. It’s been creeping around his nostrils all evening, and it could be an olfactory illusion, but Jim can’t help the growing suspicion that the smell is organic in nature. Organic in the same way body odor is organic. As in, it came from a body, and nope. Jim’s stomach gives a powerful lurch and that’s his cue to move to the next installment of this particular shit show, and God, it really could be worse, couldn’t it?</p><p>“Christ, what a hack,” a voice mutters from somewhere to his left, drawing Jim’s attention.</p><p>His eyes flit around for the source, but there are just enough people milling around the display to make it difficult. That is, until he sees an artfully crafted cane shaking derisively at the next painting over. “I mean, really? This is what passes for art these days?” the man guffaws. “Fucking basic.”</p><p>“Sir!” An older woman with a museum name tag is rushing toward the real-life manifestation of Jim's ire. “Please have some respect for the other attendees,” she chastises, voice stern with indignation. As if the man’s reaction is somehow audacious in the face of so much actual vomit on canvas. Fuck's sake.</p><p>The man doesn’t relent, turning toward the curator with a huff. Jim is momentarily taken aback by the sharp cut of his features, from his bespoke suit to the clear intellect he sees swimming behind the immediate fury flashing in his eyes. And what eyes they are; bright, electric blue.</p><p>“Respect?” The word is spat, like venom. “Ha! Degas is literally rolling in his grave right now.”</p><p>Jim snorts. It isn’t quiet, and he clears his throat after awkwardly drawing the duo's attention. “Is, uh, is there a problem here?”</p><p>The curator's shoulders slump in relief as she notes Jim's attire. He flashes her a smile, pretending not to notice the way the man's eyes slide up his body with unabashed interest.</p><p>“Thank God you’re here, officer,” the woman, Abigail, according to her badge, says, “I was just about to have this young man escorted out for being disruptive.”</p><p>“Ah,” Jim replies dumbly, allowing himself to meet said young man's gaze.</p><p>“Oswald Cobblepot,” the man says, affably, offering Jim his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, officer. What brings Gotham’s finest to this…well.” He spares a brief glace at the room at large, rolling his eyes. “This.”</p><p>The curator opens her mouth, probably to hint a bit more forcefully that Jim should throw Oswald out on his ear, but Jim replies before she can. “I was invited by the director,” Jim informs, touting his connection to Barb like a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card.</p><p>“I’m certain the director would be pleased to know her faith in you was not misplaced,” she says accusingly to Jim, squinting at his name plate. “Officer Gordon? Perhaps I should phone the station with your badge number and tell them what a…piss poor job you’re doing.”</p><p>She whisper-shouts the last, and Jim takes a deep breath, sighing it out with all the weight of his resignation. “Ma’am—”</p><p>“Don’t be absurd,” Oswald haughtily interjects. “Officer Gordon has successfully diffused the situation. My forthcoming tirade on the use of vomit as art medium has been entirely derailed.”</p><p>Abigail's lips press into a firm line as she eyes them skeptically. Finally, her shoulders relax and she sighs. “Very well. But one more outburst like that, and I’ll have you both tossed out.”</p><p>Jim winces as she takes her leave, though he suspects that at least some part of her must agree with Oswald’s stance or she would have tried harder.</p><p>Oswald hums. “I suppose she has a point,” he says with a sigh. “It’s just frustrating sometimes.”</p><p>“Not a fan, I take it,” Jim replies with a grin.</p><p>Oswald shrugs a single shoulder, coy, as he leans forward a bit on his cane. “What gave me away?”</p><p>Jim chuckles, facing Oswald fully to observe his posture, the way his lips draw downward in distaste as he stares at the mounted painting. “I have a feeling your reasons for hating it are somewhat deeper than mine.”</p><p>Oswald hums, expression thoughtful as he replies, “I’ve spent years of my life, thousands of dollars on classes to hone my craft, and this…this just.” He waves an exasperated arm at the painting. “I can think of at least a dozen or more undergraduate art students at Gotham University, some of them in their first semester, more deserving than this talentless hack. But it’s different so it must be special, right?”</p><p>Oswald snorts, then answers his own question. “Wrong! This isn’t innovation—it’s just garbage; shock value. It doesn’t say or mean anything or provoke anything, nausea aside. And don’t think I haven’t considered the irony.”</p><p>“You’re an artist?”</p><p>Oswald blushes, shaking his head as he averts his eyes. “I—I dabble.”</p><p>“For your entire life and thousands of dollars, you dabble?” Jim recites. “Come on.”</p><p>“It’s personal.” Oswald quietly admits. “Not every artist creates for the purpose of show and tell.”</p><p>Jim hums. He doesn’t want to push, but he also doesn’t want to stop flirting. Oswald is feisty and sharp and Jim has thing for dark-haired divas; fucking sue him. “You don’t have anything from one of those classes? Not one, tiny piece you’d feel comfortable sharing with a stranger?”</p><p>For a minute, it appears as though Oswald intends to refuse, but then he’s eyeing Jim with something like inspiration. “Tell you what, Officer Gordon—”</p><p>“Jim,” he interjects, “if you want.”</p><p>Oswald smiles, eyes softening warmly. “Jim.”</p><p>Jim smiles, pleased with the sound of it. “You were saying?”</p><p>Oswald straightens, clearing his throat. “Yes, well. I was going to say that I don’t share with strangers, but I suppose if you bought me a coffee…”</p><p>“We could get to know each other a little better?” Jim finishes for him, eager to accept.</p><p>“Yes, exactly. If…” he shrugs, vacillating once more into something a bit more reserved, shy. “If you want to, that is.”</p><p>“Honestly,” Jim replies, waving a hand toward the painting hung in their peripheral (Jim can’t look at anymore barf-art or he’s going to add some flourishes of his own to the canvas), “I’d love to get out of here, especially if it’s with you.”</p><p>“Oh!” Oswald giggles, flush deepening. “You’re really—I mean. People don’t usually, er…”</p><p>Jim takes a cautious step forward, quietly implores, “What?”</p><p>Oswald ducks his head, hands wrung around the handle of his cane. He glances up at Jim demurely. “They don’t, uh, notice me. Mostly.”</p><p>“I find that hard to believe,” Jim replies honestly. “We’re in a room full of people, surrounded by modern…art, and you’re the only compelling creation I’ve noticed all evening.”</p><p>Oswald snorts. “If you’re trying to say I’m more attractive than barf—”</p><p>Jim flinches. “S’what I get for trying to be smooth. Can I try again?”</p><p>Oswald bats his eyelashes, expectant, to which Jim sniggers. Clearing his throat, he says, “Okay. Cards on the table?”</p><p>Oswald smirks. “Please.”</p><p>“I think you’re gorgeous,” he blurts, “and if I’m the first person to notice, then everyone in this city is either blind or an idiot.”</p><p>“Oh my God, would you both please just get the hell out of here already!” They both start at the sharp rebuke, spinning to find themselves pinned in the cross hairs of a beautiful socialite. Barb is dressed to the nines in a smart white blouse and a black skirt that stops just above the knees, one of which is bent forward slightly, following the unimpressed jut of her hips, all the better to tap the toe of her expensive stiletto impatiently in their direction. “This is by far the most awkward mating ritual I’ve ever had the misfortune of witnessing.”</p><p>“Barb—”</p><p>“A fine idea,” Oswald replies, recovering much more quickly than Jim, who can feel himself cringing in embarrassment. Christ.</p><p>Oswald saves him yet again, gently taking his elbow and turning them toward the door. Jim snaps back to awareness at that, allowing Oswald to lean on him rather than his cane as they make for the exit. “Tough crowd,” Jim says, when his brain finally catches up with his feet.</p><p>“You know her?” Oswald asks.</p><p>Jim sighs. “That was the director, Barbara Kean. We’ve…crossed paths. For work.”</p><p>Oswald’s stride falters slightly. “Oh.”</p><p>“It’s not what you think,” he hurriedly amends. “Or, not anymore. I was looking at rings, and she was…sleeping with other people.”</p><p>“Ouch.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“That explains a lot,” Oswald says as they clear the museum entrance, landing on the front steps. “At least, it explains how Nygma managed to convince all those stiff-necked idiots to display his obnoxious paintings. Clearly, Miss Kean struggles to discern the difference between street art and a back-alley dumpster fire.”</p><p>"We still have to work together sometimes, so we try to be amicable, but..." Jim chuckles, shrugs. “My dad used to say, 'there's no accounting for taste…or the lack thereof.’”</p><p>Oswald smiles. “Wise words.”</p><p>“He had his moments,” Jim agrees, wistful. “How about us? Are we having a moment?”</p><p>“I would like to have more than a moment, I think,” Oswald replies, only loud enough that Jim can barely hear him over the bustle of Gotham’s busy streets.</p><p>“There’s a diner,” Jim suggests, “coupl’a blocks from here.”</p><p>Oswald chews his bottom lip for a moment, debating. “You’re still in your uniform.”</p><p>“That’s the best way to go,” Jim sagely informs. “Cops get discounts.”</p><p>“Ah, so you’re charming and cheap,” Oswald replies with a snort.</p><p>“Starving artists can’t complain.”</p><p>“Who says I’m starving?” Oswald gestures to his immaculate attire.</p><p>Jim grins, leaning in close enough to see the way Oswald shivers in response as he gently loops a finger under the collar of his jacket. The tiny piece of protruding plastic he happened to notice on their mad dash from the exhibit is indeed exactly what it looks like. “Forty-nine eighty-five,” Jim whispers. “Bit steep for the Goodwill, but a bargain all the same.”</p><p>Oswald sucks in a breath, pushing at Jim’s shoulder as he self-consciously claps a hand over the tag at his neck. “What are you, the resale police?” he demands, annoyed, though it is clearly a mask for his embarrassment.</p><p>Jim rolls his eyes. “No, but I am hoping to make detective this year,” he admits, unashamed, as he pulls his utility knife from its pocket. “Come here.”</p><p>Oswald’s eyes widen comically. “Is this how all your dates go, or am I just special?”</p><p>Jim snorts. “Let me cut it off for you.”</p><p>In a surprising turn of events, Oswald’s blush manages to darken as he shakes his head. “Can’t.”</p><p>Jim arches a questioning brow, to which his companion rolls his eyes and heaves an enormous, put-upon sigh.</p><p>“If I cut if off, I can’t return it,” he confesses, haughtily displeased. “God, this is so embarrassing.”</p><p>“Maybe,” Jim allows, “if I were someone important you were trying to impress.”</p><p>The flat, dead-eyed stare Oswald levels at him in that moment, Jim will cherish always. There is something immediately addicting about riling the man’s ire. It is incredibly rude, completely at odds with his goal of charming the pants off him later, but Jim can’t resist.</p><p>“You’re right,” Oswald says, deadpanned, “can’t imagine who I’d be trying to impress.”</p><p>Jim catches his hand a moment before Oswald can turn away and leave him standing there like he deserves, looking exactly like the pathetic, lonely idiot he is. “That was a dick move,” Jim admits, “but I am very impressed.”</p><p>Oswald eyes him cautiously. “Not going to fine me for retail fraud?”</p><p>“Not my department,” Jim replies, tugging Oswald’s hand cajolingly. “Why don’t you let me show you the wonders of a cop’s salary? I’ll buy you as many discounted breadsticks as you can stuff in those second-hand pockets.”</p><p>Oswald snorts, then sniggers. “Shut-up,” he demands. “I’ll have you know that thrift-shopping is an eco-friendly fashion choice.”</p><p>Jim grins. “Absolutely,” he agrees. “That’s exactly what I tell myself every time I peruse the underwear at Salvation Army.”</p><p>Oswald cringes in distaste. “Gross!”</p><p>“Show me yours, and I’ll show you mine,” he teases.</p><p>Oswald observes him with sharp focus. “You are…not what I expected.”</p><p>“Is that…bad?”</p><p>Oswald gives a subtle shake of his head. “Just different.” He shrugs, then adds. “Much too handsome to be a cop, for one.”</p><p>Jim offers his arm, relieved and pleased in equal measure when Oswald accepts. He leads them down the stairs toward the sidewalk. “I wasn’t always a cop,” he replies. “Eighteen months ago, I was a Marine.”</p><p>“I was recovering from a hit and run accident eighteen months ago,” Oswald divulges, his mood darkening somewhat.</p><p>Jim squeezes his arm in unspoken support. He understands better than most the depression that often accompanies a life-changing physical injury, knows he’d been lucky to leave the military whole and mostly intact. Not wanting his empathy mistaken for pity, Jim responds light-heartedly, “I wasn’t going to ask until our second date.”</p><p>It has the desired effect, Oswald’s singsong laugh dissipating the sour notes of the conversation. “Presumptuous much?”</p><p>“Maybe a little,” Jim concedes. Gotham’s night life is in full swing as they stroll toward their destination, raucous voices dancing on the air as cars pass by in an artful blur of headlights and sound. Jim fights the urge to look for trouble at the end of every dark alley they pass, determined to stay present. One of Barb’s biggest complaints was Jim’s inability to leave work at the station. He huffs at the stray thought, shoving it back into the depths from whence it came.</p><p>The silence carries between them, comfortable, until they reach the diner. Jim’s reaching for the door when Oswald pulls him back with surprising strength. Jim meets his eyes and it’s then that he finally gets it, that he’s sure it isn’t just him. The city quiets to a hum as Jim’s focus narrows to the quality of Oswald’s sigh at the first press of their lips. Jim uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss, a gentle application of tongue that leaves him wanting for more.</p><p>They’ve barely kissed for a handful of moments, but they’re both panting when they part. Oswald catches his eyes, guileless when he mutters, “I want to paint you.”</p><p>Jim nuzzles his forehead against the soft hair at Oswald’s temple. “That sounds an awful lot like ‘I want to fuck you,’” he accuses.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Christ.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”</p><p>Jim kisses him again. “Let me buy you dinner first at the very least,” he jokes. Sort of. Mostly, he wants to press Oswald against the nearest wall and hump his leg like a teenager. Instead, he leans away to open the restaurant door like a goddamned gentleman and says, “After you.”</p><p>The smile Oswald affords him is brilliant in its affection, laden with an air of promise that Jim can’t help but respond to in kind. He dedicates the rest of his life, then and there, to seeing it again.</p><p>And again.</p><p>And again.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hope you enjoyed this tiny ball of fluff. If so, please leave a comment or a kudo.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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